If you’re enjoying the story, consider voting to show your support. Feel free to join me on Discord to chat and share your thoughts: https://discord.gg/hTQJtj2K9U.

#More than 10 Chapters ahead on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/TrikoRex. If you have a moment, leaving a review would mean a lot to me and help me see who’s interested in the story’s future.

~~~

[45+3’]

Still, they needed a goal, and the chance came in the dying minutes of extra time. Amiri got on the end of a pass in the centre circle and bombed forward, charging at the defensive lines. Verratti tried to get in his way, but the German midfielder dropped his shoulder and veered right.

He exchanged a quick one-two with Diaby on the flanks by losing his marker and Mbappé, who made a halfhearted attempt at defending. Dribbling forward from the right, he quickly carved up the backfield, creating confusion for a moment on who should close him down. He didn’t wait for them to figure it out as he sent a weighted pass forward to Schick at the top of the key.

The Czech striker received the ball with his back to goal, holding off Kimpembe as he laid the ball off to his right. Suddenly, Rakm was there and struck the ball for the first time with his right. The ball left his boot like a missile, taking flight toward the top left corner, spinning wickedly through the Parisian air.

Navas, between the stiks, didn’t have time to think and reacted, his eyes locked on the trajectory. The Costa Rican keeper launched himself across his goal, arms fully extended, fingers straining. The ball was rising, curling away the closer it got to the goal. Navas strained his arms and got there, just barely, his fingertips deflecting it over the crossbar at the last possible moment.

"KEYLOR NAVAS!" Drury roared, his voice cracking with emotion. "WHAT A SAVE! Rakim thought he grabbed an equaliser with the last kick of the half!"

"Incredible reflexes!" Tyldesley added. "That was destined for the top corner—Navas somehow got a hand to it!"

The corner was delivered quickly by Demirbay, swinging it in toward the penalty spot with pace. Bodies rose in a chaotic scramble—Tah got his head to it first, but Marquinhos was there, heading it clear with authority. The ball fell to Paredes at the edge of the box, and the referee immediately checked his watch.

*(FWEEET! FWEEET! FWEEEEET!)*

[HT: Paris Saint-Germain 1-0 Bayer 04 Leverkusen]

"And that IS the halftime whistle!" Drury announced. "What a pulsating forty-five minutes of football! PSG lead one-nil through Kylian Mbappé’s moment of brilliance, but Leverkusen have shown they belong on this stage."

"Two goalkeepers at the top of their game," Tyldesley said. "Hradecky with at least six crucial saves, Navas matching him save for save. The difference? One moment of brilliance from Mbappé. We will be hoping for more of that in the second half, which promises to be equally as exciting."

~~~

[Leverkusen Dressing Room | Parc des Princes | 21:10 CET]

The away dressing room was quiet when the players filed in. Some sat with heads bowed, others grabbed water bottles and towels, the frustration palpable despite the relatively close scoreline. Rakim slumped onto the bench in his corner, a cold towel draped over his head as he tried to recover his energy.

Tah moved through the room, clapping shoulders and offering words of encouragement to those who looked like they needed them. "Heads up. We’re still in this. One goal, and it’s level."

Bosz entered last, closing the door behind him. He didn’t say anything immediately and just stood there, hands on his hips, scanning the players. The room gradually quieted, all eyes turning toward him, seemingly seeking words of wisdom or judgment on their mistakes.

"First," Bosz began, his voice measured, "Lukas." He gestured to Hradecky. "You are the only reason we’re still in this match. Nice work, thank you." Hradecky nodded in acknowledgement, taking a sip from his bottle.

"Second," Bosz continued, pacing slightly, "We are not losing this match because we’re worse than them. We’re losing because we’ve made small mistakes in dangerous areas, and they’ve punished us for them. That’s it, the only difference between them and us."

He pointed to the tactical board behind him. "They’re pressing high, yes. Mbappé and Neymar are world-class, yes. But look at what we created. I saw some good plays when we got going," he paused for a moment before continuing. "But for some reason, that I can’t explain, we just let them play their game. We launch a few good attacks, then we sit back and let them get into rhythm."

"Defensively," Bosz said, turning back to the board, "we need to be tighter on the transitions. When they win the ball, we need to attack them head-on. This is no different from Bayern or Dortmund, we win the ball early up the field and make them uncomfortable as much as possible."

"Attacking," Bosz said, and his tone shifted slightly—more urgent now. "We need to raise the tempo, quick passes, and sharper transitions to the flanks. Rakim, when you get the ball on the left, attack Florenzi. He’s on a yellow; he shouldn’t even be getting close to shutting you down, kid." Rakim nodded, looking up to face him from under the towel, his fingers drumming lightly on his knee.

"Diaby," Bosz said, turning to the French winger, he continued giving out personalised instructions to each player. For the next ten minutes, he made sure they all knew what the game plan for the second half was and were ready to face it.

Bosz stepped back from the tactical board, his eyes sweeping across the room one final time. "We came here to get some well-deserved retribution from last year’s result," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Not to admire PSG’s stars. Not to play for a respectable loss. We came here to show them that Leverkusen belongs at this level."

He paused, letting the words settle. "Forty-five minutes," Bosz continued. "That’s all we have. Forty-five minutes to prove that this season isn’t a fluke. That we came to compete for silverware and didn’t just wander into this match. So when you walk back out there, earn your right to play at this level."

"Are we together?" he asked them, and the room erupted in agreement—fists pounding on lockers, voices rising in a unified roar. "TOGETHER!"

Bosz nodded once, satisfied. "Alright. Let’s go." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

~~~

[Second Half | 21:30 CET]

(FWEEET!)

[46’]

Leverkusen kicked off, with Schick tapping it back to Amiri outside the centre circle. The playmaker immediately played it to the side, finding Demirbay, who drove forward at the charging PSG midfield. Verratti stepped up to close him down, but Demirbay played it wide to Rakim on the left before the Italian could interfere.

Rakim controlled it with his first touch, skipping past Di María with a smooth L-turn. The Argentine winger tried to get in his way, but other than a small bump, he didn’t bother him too much. Exchanging a one-two with Amiri, he managed to put a little distance between himself and the charging Paredes. Picking up speed, he drove head-on at Florenzi, forcing the Italian right-back to backpedal, trying to show him wide.

He didn’t slow down as the distance narrowed, and when there was less than a meter separating them, he performed a quick stepover with his right foot, then another with his left. He swayed left and right, trying to sell the movement inside as Florenzi held his ground, refusing to bite, his eyes locked on the ball rather than his feet. Not panicking at the lack of reaction, he adjusted, nudging the ball outside with his left boot, accelerating toward the byline.

Florenzi turned to chase, but Rakim’s first step was quick, gaining a yard of separation, widening the distance as he reached the side of the box. Marquinhos began to shift from his central position, trying to close down the danger as more blue shirts converged on him. Rakim spotted the movement early and knew he had seconds before the angle closed completely. Instead of trying to do more, he fired in a trivella cross with his right foot, sending a low skimmer across the penalty spot.

Schick raced into the box with Marquinhos turning to adjust and Kimpembe in toe. The Czech striker stretched out his right leg, trying to redirect the ball goalward, but Kimpembe got there a fraction earlier, his sliding tackle deflecting it behind for a corner.

"Rakim Rex immediately on the attack!" Drury exclaimed. "That’s the intensity they need if they want to cause an upset!"

.

.

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED...